The First Prophet
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TITLES BY KAY HOOPER
Haven
The First Prophet
FIRST
PROPHET
KAY HOOPER
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THE FIRST PROPHET
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove premium edition / December 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Kay Hooper.
Cover photograph copyright © Andy and Michelle Kerry / Trevillion Images.
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Text design by Laura K. Corless.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-61336-8
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| ALWAYS LEARNING | PEARSON |
FIRST
PROPHET
The Bishop Files
Report
September 22
To Whom It May Concern:
I address this report as I have done because you and I agreed it would be best that
your name not appear in any written form, for obvious reasons. Future reports will
be submitted in the same format and manner, as requested.
As a brief preface, I will say that in my routine monitoring of various psychics in
this country and elsewhere, active and latent, whom I considered candidates for either
the Special Crimes Unit or Haven, I found myself becoming suspicious of certain events.
I cannot say it was a situation I immediately understood; my understanding, as these
reports will make clear, is ongoing as I—and others—slowly piece together the disparate
bits of information and actions that are clearly a part of what is going on.
I will also repeat, as I told you when we met, that I intend to take no one else into
my confidence unless
and until it becomes necessary. Until then, only you and Miranda will be privy to
the information I am able to collect.
I cannot say just why I believe something sinister is going on within and around the
largely underground psychic community; it is not a certainty I can attribute to either
my or my wife’s precognitive abilities. Psychically, we are both…blocked…whenever
we turn our attention toward certain events and actions—and people. That alone would
have drawn my attention, but there was more. Much more.
I therefore submit the following narrative, assembled from among those involved in
the situation that transpired, and from my own firsthand observations and senses as
events unfolded. I have no doubt we are a long way from learning the complete story,
but herein, I believe, is a good place to begin these reports, detailing a situation
that occurred several months ago, and which I believe may prove to be the catalyst
that will begin to unlock at least some of the secrecy surrounding these events.
Respectfully submitted,
Noah Bishop, Unit Chief
Special Crimes Unit, FBI
They moved with the kind of stealth that came of long experience and grim purpose,
and they didn’t waste a motion or make a sound. They numbered no more than half a
dozen, not counting the man who stood back from the isolated cabin they had encircled
and watched them. He had extremely well-developed night vision.
Through his unobtrusive, almost invisible headset, a whisper reached him.
“She’s not alone. Brodie’s with her.”
He barely hesitated before speaking softly into the microphone. “How long have they
been here?”
“The vehicle is cold.”
“Then he’s had time to call in reinforcements.”
“Maybe. But we have lookouts posted, and no one’s
reported any movement toward this position. We may have hours yet.”
“And we may not.” Duran glanced back over his shoulder at what daylight would have
shown was a cliff edge no more than a few feet behind him, and a sheer drop to a boulder-littered
canyon below. “Brodie chose well; this is an easily defensible position. For him.
I don’t propose to be trapped here, and dawn is minutes away. I assume Brodie is armed.”
An unamused chuckle came from the headset. “He usually is. To the teeth. And he’ll
go down fighting to protect this one.”
“I know.” Duran wondered absently whether his lieutenant had reached this conclusion
because he knew the fragile young psychic inside the cabin very much resembled another
young woman Brodie had nearly died trying to protect years before, but the next words
he heard through his headset answered that question for him.
“She’d be as valuable to him as to us. If we’re right about her potential, she’s worth
ten times her weight in gold.”
“Yes. I need to know what’s going on inside that cabin. Move closer. Carefully.”
Not being psychic himself had its drawbacks, Brodie knew. Like now. How the hell could
he tell her she was wrong when he wasn’t sure?
“I have to try,” she insisted, her face too gaunt for a young woman and her eyes far
too strained.
“You can’t.”
He kept his voice matter-of-fact, having learned at least that psychics as a rule
loved a challenge—and young women could rarely resist one. “You’re exhausted. You
haven’t slept for two days or eaten since yesterday. Besides that, it’s new to you,
not yet under control—”